


An Neart na Darach

by MuiromeM



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Drama, Gen, Headcanon, M/M, Poetry, Post-Season/Series Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:49:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MuiromeM/pseuds/MuiromeM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And should he bear on pale crown, a wreath born of the oak tree's boughs, the Queen would speak-out not a word, of knight lay prone with polished sword"</p><p>Written for the loss of Gwaine in the finale since I was hit with inspiration. Contains some of my personal headcannon concerning the cremation ceremony and what may have been after Percival brought Gwaine's body back to Camelot. Subtle Perwaine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Neart na Darach

**Author's Note:**

> This all happened because I was reading about the Language of Flowers and found out that oak leaves mean "strength" and my immediate thought was of Gwaine (you know, "courage, magic, and strength"). Then between a google search, finding out about some Greek or Roman emperor who wore a head wreath/crown of gold oak leaves, and a previously decided headcannon that Percival (dammit Perwaine got me good in the last episode) wore Gwaine's necklace to remember him by after death (WEAR IT ALWAYS PERCY. ALWAYS) there was no going back. So I was unable to escape the idea of Percival gathering oak leaves and making a head wreath/laurel/crown from them to put on Gwaine's head (as a gift, for taking the necklace) when they lay him in the boat on the lake to be cremated.
> 
> I was going to just write a very short after-the-credits kind of fic where Percival does just that and no one bothers to try and stop him but when I was struck by inspiration and jotted down a first paragraph from Gwen's point of view it sounded more like a poem and then BAM. There was a poem.
> 
> Don't even ask me how I ended up deciding to make everything in sets of six either because I DON'T KNOW AND IT DROVE ME FREAKING CRAZY. So, sorry if the tempo is a bit odd. Reviews and comment are always loved, but go easy on me... I don't usually dare to dwell in the realm of poetry.
> 
> I won't guarantee the translation is correct, but the title is supposed to be Irish Gaelic for "The Strength of Oak".

* * *

 

"I'd rather die"- a spoken vow  
to hinder she that held him now  
though courage would not stand the blow  
of serpent's hiss from wicked foe  
as fangs sank deep in flesh exposed  
came shattered screams and eyes held closed

To friend awoke, the sound had come  
as bonds did break and he would run  
on forest floor, so cold and bound  
not once did stir the friend he'd found  
at last, when hope had seemed to flee  
the slightest motion he did see

To cradle there, this fallen form  
once prison gates, now welcome arms  
the trees would keep him to the last  
yet not their reach that he would catch  
as hands wound over fevered brow  
a face he knew, come to him now

In warnings gasped through broken lips  
to try and drown deep-seated guilt  
his name said once and eyes forlorn  
from gentle-giant, heart now torn  
aghast at failure he had brought  
denied by friend who blamed him not

When pain bled from one life at last  
unto the other it would pass  
twice more he called- again, again  
a plea to lift the lifeless head  
with prayers lost in silent cry  
bent crown to crown, one last goodbye

With body clutched to mailed chest,  
through open gate, up cobbled steps  
the kingdom hushed in battles won  
a grieving nod to men who'd gone  
they gathered now in solemn meet  
'round soldier lain at sovereign feet

No sound met on the darkened shore  
in red they cloaked, as done before  
where silence once was not a choice  
now souls they'd sell to hear that voice  
sent out with pyre as yet unlit  
to water's hands would vessel drift

And should he bear on pale crown  
a wreath born of the oak tree's boughs  
the Queen would speak-out not a word  
of knight lay prone with polished sword  
and watch green leaves turned into ash  
beneath the fire's gentle grasp.

'Twas written bare on shadowed face  
by whom the token had been placed  
to mark lost strength, upon his brow  
where heads had touched so long ago  
as tribute paid from spirit broke  
so suited him, this laurel oak

A gift it was, for space he'd left  
in place of chain once laid at breast  
the trinket at another's throat,  
a parting gift plucked from the boat  
to honor he who'd not returned  
a noble man, by blood and earned


End file.
